


What To Say To You

by crossingwinter



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Don't worry, F/M, Modern AU Fix-It Fic, Philip won't die in this one
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-29
Updated: 2015-11-29
Packaged: 2018-05-04 00:20:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,742
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5312579
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crossingwinter/pseuds/crossingwinter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He can’t shake the unease that comes from not knowing if he wants to go downtown for the weekend.  He’s sure they’d all be happy to see him.  He should want to go.  He’s the golden boy, destined to blow them all away.  What kind of golden boy doesn’t want to go home when his parents’ marriage is in shambles and his dad…</p>
            </blockquote>





	What To Say To You

Philip gets a text message right as he’s sitting down.

_Angie: Are you coming home this weekend?_

It must be a group text, because a moment later, his phone lights up again.

_Alex: Please.  PLEASE._

Philip stares at the phone for a moment before flipping it over. He’d been excited for this class moments before, but now he’s thinking about mom, and dad, and the Reynolds Pamphlet again, and how each of his siblings is probably waiting with baited breath to see if he would take train downtown.  It would only take about half-an-hour, if the 1 was fast to come and the 2/3 wasn’t screwed up.  He could pretend that he was going to be helping Angie with her college essays—as if it weren’t easier to do it digitally.  He could be the perfect picture of the dutiful eldest son, just like usual. That’s what he does. That’s what he has always done. Then why was he suddenly feeling ill, frightened of what awaited him downtown, of how it couldn’t be home no matter what, not with his parents not talking to one another?

The room fills, and Philip is glad his phone is flipped over so isn’t showing him more flashing notes as Angie pushes and Alex begs, and who knows, maybe they’ll add James to the chain because dad had gotten him an iPhone when he started middle school, even if he was just a kid.

He can’t shake the unease that comes from not knowing if he wants to go downtown for the weekend.  He’s sure they’d all be happy to see him.  He should want to go.  He’s the golden boy, destined to blow them all away.  What kind of golden boy doesn’t want to go home when his parents’ marriage is in shambles and his dad…

Angie said that dad was sleeping in the couch. _At least mom hasn’t kicked him out,_ he remembered her text reading, but he wasn’t sure it was better.

It’s the third meeting of his class on the voices of the Harlem Renaissance, and already it’s his favorite class. He’s not sure that he’ll ever find a class to top it, in truth.  It’s disappointing in some ways: he’s only a sophomore.  To peak so soon—it’s almost unfair. 

Philip loves this class.  He’s good at this class.  He dominates the discussion.  He knows that he's doing it, and he doesn’t care. His father had taught him long before that you say what you think, and it doesn’t matter what others think of you.

He’d feel bad about it— _maybe_ —if other people actually _talked_. They don’t.  They’re all like Theodosia Burr who is sitting right across from him, listening while others talk.

He’s known Theo Burr for years now. Ever since he was a little kid. Their moms used to take them to Battery Park to play together while their dads argued about stuff—or rather, while his father argued and Mr. Burr smiled, which for Mr. Burr was as close to arguing as Philip had ever seen him do.  It had been almost stunning to watch him debate grandpa for his senate seat.

They’d never gone to the same school—she’d gone to Brearley, an all girl’s prep school on the east side, and he’d gone to Collegiate, an all-boy’s school on the upper west.  This class at Columbia was the first time that he’d seen how she was in a classroom, and he wasn’t really surprised—she was silent.  Her eyes are alert, and sometimes he sees her rolling them at him, like she had something to say and was holding it back, but for the most part she just writes notes in the margin of the Langston Hughes poem that they— _he—_ are discussing. 

She catches up to him after class ends, which surprises him slightly.  The past few meetings of the seminar, she’d gone off on her own—he’s always assumed to the library. But today she has something to say.

“You could share the class more.” She’s wearing a bright pink scarf that gives nice contrast to her dark skin, and her hair is sleeked to her skull and shining, tight in a pony-tail, so unlike the frizz that he can’t quite bring himself to figure out how to tame.

“People should talk more,” he shoots back.

Theo rolls her eyes.  “Yeah, sure,” she says.  “It’d help if they weren’t afraid of getting steamrolled.”

“Did they nominate you to talk to me about it or something?” Philip demands.

“No,” Theo shrugs.  “It’s just not everyone’s used to shouting with your dad over dinner.”

“I don’t shout with my dad,” Philip says, puffing up. “My dad doesn’t shout.”

He sees her eyebrows twitch, and just like that, he’s thinking about the Reynolds Pamphlet again, and Angie's and Alex’s texts that are waiting for an answer.  His dad wouldn’t shout if he went home for the weekend.  He’d probably be relieved to see Philip there, and mom would be too. They’d maybe be in the same room at the same time, even.  And it would be icy cold.  Nothing burns like the cold. He winces at the thought. It’s so…bland. He can think of a better way to phrase that.  He’s a poet.

He realizes he’s been silent, and Theo's standing there, her hands tucked into the pockets of her light blue Columbia fleece. She’s letting the silence speak for her the way she always has, and Philip sighs.  “Yeah,” he says.  “Yeah, ok. I’ll…”

She gives him a smile.  She doesn’t smile much.  His dad used to joke that Aaron Burr smiled so much he hadn’t given those muscles to Theo. She’s got a pretty smile, though.

“You ok?” she asks him.  And it’s a very different tone of voice.  It’s softer, gentler.  The voice of someone who he’d gone trick-or-treating with when he was six.

Philip reaches for his phone almost unconsciously, and he looks around.  They’re near the steps of the library now, and the quad is full of people playing ultimate and talking and reading.  He doesn’t see anyone he knows apart from her though.  “It’s hard,” he says quietly.

“I bet,” she says.  She reaches out and pats him on the arm.  He looks at it for a moment, then at her.  Her eyes are deep and dark and for a moment he can’t think of words at all.

 

*

 

Philip does go downtown for the weekend in the end. But he goes largely because Theo's going downtown.  Her dad is home for a campaign event and they’re having dinner and the minute she says it, Philip decides that he can at least go down for dinner too. So they meet on 110th Street and take the 1 together. 

“Have you been home since?” she asks him while they wait to transfer at 96th Street.

Philip shakes his head.  “No.  I mean, I was home over the summer when it…” he remembers the Post’s headline, his father’s face and Maria Reynolds’.  He had never seen her before.  All he can think of how strange it is to see his father next to someone who’s not his mother. “But not since school started up again. Angie tries to drag me home about once a weekend.  I bet it’s rough for her.”

“Can’t be fun,” Theodosia agrees.  “Especially not while she’s applying to college. Columbia?” she asks.

Philip shakes his head.  “I think she’s not applying out of bitterness.  She was all excited about it at first and then the summer…she didn’t want to go where dad went all of a sudden.”

“Understandable,” Theodosia says.

Then he looks at her sideways.  “You didn’t want to go to Princeton?”  Her dad had gone to Princeton.  Always wearing black and orange things. 

She shrugs.  “Not really.  It’s…” she wrinkles her nose.  “I didn’t much enjoy visiting there.”  It’s not an answer. Another Burrism. Philip remembers his father railing against Aaron Burr when he was running for grandpa’s senate seat the first time. “He doesn’t ever say what he’s against or what he’s _for_!” he had said, throwing his copy of the Journal down on the kitchen table.

“He’s a politician, Alexander,” his mother had said.

“So he should stand for something.”

“We can’t all be like you,” Aunt Angelica had said dryly. She’d been visiting. Philip can’t remember why.

“The Senate will be worse off with Burr in it,” his father had grumbled.

“Tell us how you really feel, Alexander,” Aunt Angelica had laughed.

“Tell us how you really feel, Theodosia,” Philip says, smiling at her.  He could do worse than letting his Aunt Angelica invade his body for a few seconds.

Theo snorts.  “Not much to say.  I didn’t like it. It’s a gut thing, you know? There are more concrete reasons not to have liked it, but honestly it was a gut reaction.”  

“You have those?”

She glares at him.  “Yes.”

“And you act on them?”

“Shut up,” she says and the train comes as Philip throws his arm around her shoulder.

“You know what I mean,” he teases.

“Do I?”

“Yeah.  You never seem to…”  He lets her sit down in the one empty seat on the train and grabs the rail overhead for support as he looks down at her. 

“Look, just because not all of us are Alexander-display-my-sex-scandal-to-the-world-Hamilton doesn’t mean that we don’t have instincts."  Philip flinches.  It stings.  "I have instincts. I act on them sometimes. Other times I hold back. That’s what people do.”

He forces a laugh, but sees her eyes narrow and knows she knows it’s forced. “Sure, Burr.”

“You could learn a thing or two about that,” she said. “Or else you’ll end up like your dad.”

“There’s nothing wrong with ending up like my dad,” Philip says, feeling his chest puff out with pride.  He’s proud of his father.  There was integrity even in his shame.  That’s what he’s told himself, anyway.

Theo sighs, but doesn’t say anything.

“What?”

“It doesn’t serve a purpose,” she says.

“It—”

“I just don’t agree is all.  Not that he’s not a great man.  What he’s done for our nation’s economy…the Bank of the US…you know, all that stuff.  That’s good. But he’s rash. And he takes that rashness and says that it’s bravery, but I’m not sure it is, is all.  It’s caused him a lot of trouble.”

Philip frowns, thinking of when Adams had fired his father, of hearing Aunt Angelica shout at him through a closed door this summer “ _You’re the only enemy you ever seem to lose to!_ ”  He flinches, and goes back to him thinking of his father telling the president publicly that he’s a fat motherfucker.

“He probably could have handled his departure from the cabinet a little more subtly…”

“Subtly isn’t a language he speaks though,” Theo says, then she looks Philip square in the eye.  “You’re a poet, Philip.  You know the value of subtlety.”

“Yeah, but there _is_ such a thing as being too subtle,” Philip says.  Another thing his father had said about Burr.

“True,” Theo says.  “But that doesn’t mean you throw subtlety out the window, right?” Is he mistaking it, or did she just look at his…no.  No she wouldn’t. She’s Theodosia Burr. She wouldn’t.  She wouldn’t just stare at his crotch like that. He’s known her since before he could walk. But when she locks eyes with him again, he finds he doesn’t know what to say for the second time that day.

“I—”  He swallows. “Theo?”

“Yeah?”

“Are you…?” He swallows again.  She’s Theo.  She’s not some girl he meets at a litmag party and brings back to his dorm room. She’s _Theo_.

“See?”  she says gently.  “Subtlety.”

 

*

 

It’s awkward.

Not the sort of awkwardness that comes from a line poorly written, the sort you can edit away, changing syntax or word choice. Philip doesn’t even know to begin to describe what sort of awkward it is.

“And you’re still not—”

“No, mom,” Angie says as she cuts into her meatloaf. “I’m not telling you where I’m applying.”

“I’m just saying, it would take some of the—”

“It would take none of the pressure off. You’d just go and get Mr. Washington to write me a letter of recommendation and I want to get in on my _own_ ,” she says.

“You sound like your namesake,” dad says quietly. “It wouldn’t _hurt_ to have George write you a letter.”

“Dad—do you honestly think they’re not going to take a look at Angelica Schuyler Hamilton’s application and _not_ already be ridiculous about it?  Do I really need a letter from the former president outlining that?” Angelica demands, her eyes burning.

“You do what it takes to get through,” dad said, and Philip sees his mother’s jaw clench.  She reached for her cup of wine and took a sip.  “But I can respect you wanting to do it on your own.”  There was something proud in his voice, some ghost of happiness. Philip glances at him. His hair’s grey now—it started going grey while he was working for Washington’s administration—and he’s wearing glasses because he’d been in his office right up until dinner.  He gives Philip a smile, then glances at mom. He catches her right as she’s putting her wine glass on the table, and looks away again.

“Polls are suggesting that your father’s going to take his seat back, Eliza,” he says, not looking at her.

“Yes, that’s what it’s looking like,” his mother says, and her voice is chilly.  Philip hates it. It’s not right. It doesn’t fit. It’s not good. “Though we’ll not know for certain until election day.” 

“I can’t wait to see Burr unseated,” dad says happily. “He just wants to be in the room where it happens.  He’s in it completely for himself. He doesn’t care about…anything apart from…I don’t even know what he cares about.”  He says it for the hundredth time, in true dad style.

“I wonder what it would be like to be in it completely for yourself,” mom says and Philip sees color rise in his father’s cheeks. But his father, for once, doesn’t say anything.

Silence fills the table.  “Philip, who did you have for Trig again?” Alex asks pointedly, and Philip hears the gush of air that’s several people around the table exhaling in relief. 

“Mr. Morris.”

“Was he a huge hard-ass then too?”

“Language, Alex,” mom intones.

But the table’s already relaxing as Alex begins to complain about trigonometry, and math, and how he hates it, and how it’s hard, and how he wishes more things were like his Biology classes. Philip does his best to chat, to charm, to smile and laugh.  To bring softness to his mother’s face, and pride to his father’s.  But his parents are both distant, and as James and John help his mother clear away the dinner plates, he checks his phone.

_Theo: I’m probably heading uptown around eleven. If you don’t feel like staying home tonight, let me know._

His fingers hover over his phone for a moment, then he types, _yeah. I’ll head up too. Meet at the 2/3?_

_Theo: Sure._

_Theo: Things OK?_

Philip doesn’t have time to reply. “What’s so important that it’s taking your attention away?” From his father, it doesn’t sound so much like a condemnation as a tone of amusement.  A question that asked _remember when you used to drag me away from work to listen to your piano?  What’s that important?_

“Nothing,” Philip lies. 

“What’s her name?” his dad asks, a smile playing at his lips.  Philip flushes. Last year, his dad had joked that Martha Washington should name her new tom cat after him, because he was so like him when he’d been that age. 

It tastes bitter in his mouth now.

“It’s not like that,” Philip says but suddenly his throat is dry, imagining it, imagining her.  _Stop it_ , he tells himself.  “It’s Theodosia Burr. She came downtown for dinner with her father but she’s heading back uptown tonight so I’ll train up with her.”

“You’re not staying?”

Philip turns and sees his mother in the door of the dining room.  She’s looking directly at him, and there’s a sadness there, an emptiness. 

“Not tonight,” Philip says, feeling guilty. He sees Angie behind her, looking disappointed.  _Don’t leave me here alone with this,_ her eyes seem to accuse. “I’ve got a paper due Monday.” The lie is feeble, but he can’t think of anything else right now.

“You could do it down here.  It’d be quiet,” his mom says.

“It’s never quiet downtown,” Philip almost laughs.

“We’d be quiet for you,” his father says, looking serious, but Philip just shakes his head.  “I’ll…I’ll be back soon.  It’s just… you know, midterms are starting up.”

“You’ve been at school for three weeks,” Angie says dryly, hands on her hips.

“Midterms start early and end right before finals,” Philip flinches.  It’s not a lie. It’s just not…

“Well,” his mother says with the practiced voice of someone who is trying not to let herself show any sign of upset. “At least take some leftovers uptown.”

“You bet,” Philip smiles at her.  He goes over and gives her a hug, and a kiss on the cheek, then glances back at his father. 

His father nods and there it is again, a flash of pride. Philip feels his heart swell slightly as his mother takes him into the kitchen.

 

*

 

He meets Theo at the Wall Street station, and they wait quietly together. 

Philip’s always said he likes quiet. Ever since he was a kid. It was easier to read in the quiet, and it was easier to write in the quiet.  But living with his father was never quiet—loud phone conversations, or even just talking, his voice filling the halls of their home. On top of that, his youngest siblings were always loud because they were, well, young.  Weren’t parents supposed to stop having children after a certain point?  His parents hadn’t and so there were seven of them.  _Now they will, though._ If his mother’s iciness had been anything to judge by.

He’s always said he liked the quiet, but it doesn’t fit in his house.  Not at all. But it fits with Theo, who stands there next to him, shivering slightly as they wait for the subway.

“You cold?”

“As a rule.”

He shrugs out of his fleece and hands it to her. She raises an eyebrow at him.

“My dad raised me well,” he says still holding the fleece.

“Your dad isn’t exactly the metric I’d go by when it comes to how to treat women,” Theodosia says.  The honesty hurts.

“Take the damn fleece, will you?” he says. She does, and puts it on over her own, then smiles at him. 

“Thanks.  I’m warmer.”

“You’re welcome.”

“You’re not cold?”

“No.”

It’s a lie, but she doesn’t need to know that. Or she can infer it if she likes.

“You’re quiet,” she says.

“So are you,” he shoots back.

“Was it bad?”

He gives her a look, and she makes a movement, but they begin to hear the rumble of the train coming into the station from Brooklyn and whatever it was disappears as they push into a car that’s noisy and full of people heading to the clubs on the lower west.

The further uptown they get, the quieter it gets as people drift out of the subway, and when they reach 96th street, there are only a few other people in their car. 

“Want to walk or take the 1?” Philip asks her.

“You won’t be cold?”  she plucks at his fleece.

“Nah.”

“You’ll tell me if you will?”

“Sure,” he lies.

The night is still as they walk up Broadway.

“Yeah, it was bad,” he says at last. They’re waiting for the light to change and let them cross 110th street.  “It’s…blown apart.  I don’t know.”

He doesn’t look at her.  He looks at 110th, to see if cars are there, to see if it’s worth jay-walking, so he doesn’t see her wrap her arms around him, but he’s warm. He hadn’t realized he was cold.

His arms entwine around hers almost involuntarily, then his face is pressing into her hair and he’s breathing deeply. She smells sweet, and he closes his eyes.  Through his eyelids he can see that the lights have changed, but they don’t move. They just stand there, and she’s holding him, and he’s holding her and when the light begins to flash again, his lips find hers and he’s kissing her.

They make their way back to John Jay in silence, and when they reach her room, they don’t even turn on the lights as their lips crash together again.  She sheds her two fleeces and tugs off his shirt, and his hands are sliding up under hers to find the clasp of her bra.  They strip down to their socks and then they're falling onto her bed in the dark, and he’s hovering over her pressing his lips to the arch of her neck, the curve of her neck, finding the warm wet between her legs.

“This ok?”

“Yes,” she says.

“You sure?”

“Yes.”

“I’m—”

She cuts him off with a kiss. “You talk too much,” she says, and she shifts and her legs fall a little more open and her lips find his again, and Philip loses himself in her and there’s nothing in the world except the sound of her breath and the little noises she’s making and his own heartbeat accelerating and accelerating until everything’s still again.

 

*

 

He’s known Theodosia Burr his whole life. They grew up together, went to rival schools, their fathers weren’t exactly close even though they’d known each other for years.  And even if things were falling apart, she was here.  She was here, and steady, and when he woke up in her extra-long bed the next day, he got to watch the way her skin glowed in the morning light.  He ran his fingers over it, and it was soft.

It is quiet—truly quiet.  It wasn’t quiet with a fear that Angie would start yapping on the phone to her friends, or his father would explode on the phone about John Adams again.  It’s not the calm before the storm.  It’s really peace.


End file.
